Transfer List
by wcgreen
Summary: Captain Cragen gets a favor: two new detectives. SVU must show them the ropes while working their own cases. Originally posted elsewhere. First in a series of stories
1. Loudoun

Author's Notes: this originally was published elsewhere as the first in a series of case stories. Before you ask/demand/beg: there is no EO 'shipping in my stories. Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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April 4th  
SVU Squad Room 

_Do I really want a cup of that sludge? _

Olivia stared at the black liquid at the bottom of the coffeepot. Casey, she knew, would pour and drink without thinking twice. Elliot would say something sharp to the room at-large then toss the dregs and make more. John would leave the sludge to solidify while he made himself a mug of tea and Fin wouldn't notice if tadpoles swam in the pot since he drank cola in the afternoon, even in winter.

_And the Captain would stand by the pot until one of us jumped up and made a fresh pot. Rank does have its privileges._

She picked up a clean mug and shifted her concentration to it.

_I wonder what Donna would do? Would she pitch in or be selfish?_

It wasn't a moot question. Thanks to a short conversation earlier that afternoon, Olivia had reason to carefully weigh the matter.

Courthouse, outside Part 15  
Earlier on April 4th

Olivia sat on the bench facing the court's door, waiting to be called. The Simkins case was a slam-dunk—the perp had both the knife used in the assault and the vic's underwear hidden in his truck's tool box—but there was no telling what a jury would do. Casey had prepped her the evening before; now, she waited her turn to testify. In Olivia's case, waiting meant pacing the hall, stopping each pass before the courtroom's door to glare at the lack of a bailiff calling her name.

"Benson? Olivia Benson? Is that you?"

Olivia spun on her heel, but that pesky bailiff still wasn't at the door. She then turned left where a woman her age and height was watching her from a long bench.

The woman stood and crossed to her.

"You probably don't remember me—Donna Loudoun. We attended the Academy together."

It took a moment before Olivia recollected the name. Donna Jo Loudoun had been a skinny girl with long curly blonde hair and a thick West Virginian accent who did okay on the classroom work and excelled in the firearms and physical training exercises. Olivia shared a few lunch breaks and after-class beers with her and some other female cadets, but the two had not been anything close to friends. After graduation, Donna had been assigned to Staten Island and Olivia had not stayed in touch.

The woman now standing before Olivia did not match the Donna of memory. Height was the same, but the hair was now short, brown, and expensively styled. Her pants suit and blouse hadn't come from the Sears catalogue and her hands had lost the calluses from milking an entire dairy herd twice daily and now sported an excellent set of French nails.

"Wow, Donna—you look like you grew up in Westchester. If you hadn't said your name, I wouldn't have recognized you."

Donna's laugh was a low, throaty chuckle. "I'll take that as a compliment. It took a lot of effort, but I finally left Walnut Grove behind me. Now, it takes a linguist to tell I wasn't born in the Empire State."

"Why the change?" Olivia asked.

Donna nodded. "I was Narcotics. My lieutenant suggested that I broaden my horizons, so I did. I can go undercover as a suburban housewife desperate for Oxycodin, or a Wall Street analyst dealing coke to my cube mates, or backslide and be a small-town hick with a meth lab hid near my daddy's still. The versatility made me valuable."

"But you're no longer Narcotics?"

Donna frowned. "I got burned on a couple of assignments. Since I was useless as an operative, I transferred to Special Frauds last year. It kept me alive, but it's boring. I'd rather play at being an analyst than actually spend my time shuffling papers."

Olivia laughed. "If you ever find an assignment that doesn't shuffle papers, let me know—I'll put my transfer in so fast, I'll start yesterday."

Donna didn't join in her amusement. "I'm not talking about the usual reports. I hate reading financials, collating tax forms, comparing this account statement with that account statement. I'd rather have your job."

"My job?"

"Yes. You want to make your Academy classmate happy, you get me into SVU. I can't take the inaction—I need excitement."

"Detective Olivia Benson!"

Olivia turned toward Part 15, where the bailiff she wanted so badly ten minutes before was now calling her name.

"Damn, Donna. We need to talk about this, but I got to go."

Donna patted her arm. "Go testify. I'll call you. We'll have lunch and plan how to get me out of Frauds."

With that, Donna strode away, her heels sharp and quick on the marble floor.

SVU Squad Room  
April 4th

_I should have said something, told Donna this job wasn't all excitement and fun. Besides, I can't guarantee anything; I just work here. Best I can do is tell Cragen about her and let him decide what do to._

Olivia stared at the mug in her hand.

_Do I want to do that?_

"You're standing between me and the hot water."

She looked over her shoulder. There stood Munch, a figure in black relieved only by the thin blue pattern in his tie and the leather of his shoulder holster. His hands cupped a ceramic mug while he peered at her over his tinted lenses.

Olivia took the hint and stepped sideways. "I'd rather stand between a mother bear and her cub than between you and your afternoon tea."

Munch moved forward and selected a tea bag, soaking it in hot water from the coffee urn.

"Smart choice, Olivia. I'm much more dangerous than a she-bear; she isn't armed."

"Gun battles over tea," she said, her tone lighter than his. "What would IAD think of us?"

Munch twisted his head to look at her, his smile small but genuine. "The SVU Tea Party," he answered, "thrown to protest people who block the coffeepot while thinking. What had you so deep in thought?"

Olivia began to make a fresh pot of coffee. "I met someone I knew at the academy. She wants me to recommend her to Cragen."

Munch turned his gaze from her to the corner made by the back wall and stairway.

"I wouldn't wish this job on anyone."

Olivia poured new grounds into the filter.

"Yeah, but we sure could use the extra bodies. As much as I like overtime…."

Munch interrupted "—it would be nice to see the inside of your eyelids once in a while?"

"You got it."

She finished assembling the new pot of coffee and turned to face him. "So, given your experience and expertise…."

Munch snorted.

"Okay, I'll skip the soft soap. Donna's a good cop, but not a people person. She's got undercover experience, but she might be a glory hound. Do I recommend her to the Captain or do I pretend I did and hope she'll never learn I didn't?"

Olivia watched his face as Munch considered her question. First, he pursed his lips, then flattened them against his teeth. His gaze shifted from her face back to the corner under the stairs, where it remained for several seconds. He then nodded once and returned his attention to her.

"Any detective transferred here will be a good detective—Cragen and the brass make certain of that. Take a step to your right and face your desk, please."

"What? Why?"

"Just do it."

Olivia complied. Munch then turned to face her, leaving her cornered by him, the refrigerator, and the coffeepot.

"Now, stand on one foot."

She chuckled at the odd request. "Does it matter which foot?"

He pointed a finger at her feet. "Eeney, meeney—how about the right one?"

She bent her right knee, raising her foot behind her.

"Now, picture yourself standing on the point of a pin."

Olivia put her foot down. "C'mon, John. Angels dance on the heads of pins, not the points."

"Angels are smarter than we are."

With the hand not holding his mug, Munch waved her foot back up. Olivia realized that, although his eyes were looking at her, he didn't seem to see her. Whatever he was trying to convey, it required all his attention.

_Okay, John—let's see what kind of game you're running on me._

She raised her foot again. Munch resumed speaking.

"Imagine this—you, like every other SVU detective, are standing on the point of a pin suspended over an unfathomable abyss. We can't see what the abyss contains, but we know that we dare not fall into it. Our pins are not comfortable places—in fact, they're damned painful, but that is where we have to stand in order to do our jobs.

"While we're on the job, we must withstand many forces, all trying to disturb our balance, to force us off our pints and into the abyss. There's the desires of our families and friends…."

He reached out and laid his fingertips on her forehead, a move that barely disturbed her balance. Olivia shifted on her left foot in reaction to the slight pressure.

"There's the requirements of the job…."

Munch placed his hand on her right collarbone and pushed her backward.

"There's the needs of the victims…."

A harder push on her right shoulder shoved her sideways; Olivia twisted away to keep her balance. Before she had recovered, he spoke again.

"And the rights of the perps…."

The same slam, but on her left shoulder.

"Your own need for sleep, food, a life of your own…"

A hard shove to her sternum.

"…and the needs and demands of your partner and coworkers…."

A palm pushed against her chin, sharp and hard. Her head snapped back and she threw up her left hand to keep from toppling.

"All these forces strive to push you off-balance, to drive you into the abyss. Only two things keep you from falling—your ability to do this job…."

He shoved her hard, first left, then right. Olivia struggled to stay upright under the onslaught.

"…and the help of your fellow detectives from their own pinpoints."

He clasped her wrist and steadied her until she regained her balance. His lenses had cleared but his eyes were dark, unreadable, as though they mirrored the abyss he had just described. Olivia felt the conflict between their scariness and the gentle warmth around her wrist and wondered why people ignored John to worry about her partner's stability.

Then Munch shifted his focus from wherever it had been back to her.

"It's that balance that matters, Olivia. If your friend can stay on her pin and spare some balance for others when they wobble, then recommend her. Otherwise, she's better off anywhere else but here."

He tipped his head toward her, nothing but concern evident on his face.

"Understand?"

She nodded, uncertain that she did but unwilling to face another demonstration.

He smiled. "Glad to be of help."

He turned, mug still clasped in his hand. Olivia watched without moving until he had returned to his desk, then she shifted her feet. The unevenness of the floor below the ball of her left foot felt as though it might be the point of a pin.

_It's like I just had a fast trip through the Twilight Zone. Hell, maybe I did—Rod Serling and Munch both dress alike._

"You okay?"

She looked up. Elliot was leaning over the railing above her, his tie loose about his neck and his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.

"What the hell was Munch doing to you?"

Olivia shrugged, not willing to try an explanation.

"I asked him a question. That was his answer—I think he'd call it 'an object lesson.''"

She turned her attention to Munch, who leaned back in his chair, newspaper in hand, reading as though nothing strange had happened.

"John thinks too much," she said, "and what he thinks about is really weird."

"When you look into an abyss," Elliot responded, "the abyss also looks at you."

Olivia snapped her gaze back to her partner. "What was that about an abyss?"

Elliot shrugged. "I don't know—probably something I heard John say. It seemed appropriate. Want me to tell him to make his object lessons hands-off?"

She shook her head. "At least it wasn't a long rant about secret government documents hidden in a vault under the station house. I'll take object lessons over that any day."

"Amen to that. Can you pour me a cup while you're at it?"

With that, Elliot headed to his desk. Olivia poured two mugs, placed one on her partner'sdesk, then took the other with her to Cragen's office.


	2. Otten

734 Westheimer Street, Brooklyn

Wednesday, April 24

A cool spring night chased the last red tinge of sunset from Brooklyn's sky. Fin Tutuola turned into a cul-de-sac lined with turn-of-the-century bungalows with neat lawns and set-back garages.

_No one setting on the stoops, no one saunterin' down the street looking for something to do, no women callin' out to friends walking by or screaming for kids or menfolk to get their sorry asses home. It all looks so white bread and Norman Rockwell, it's freaky._

He drove around the cul-de-sac and parked in front of a bungalow painted pale gray with barn red trim, his car just out of reach of the light cast by a street lamp. Across the street and up one house, a similar bungalow, this one white with dark green trim, sat dark and quiet. That house, according to info given up by a guest of Rikers who hoped for a deal, recently had been rented by one Jake Reynolds, suspected pedophile.

He slid down in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position that made it look like his car was empty. He didn't need people checking on him, drawing attention to his presence while he waited for Reynolds to come home.

_What I really don't need is to spend all night freezin' my ass off but we have to establish his routine, and that takes time and eyeballs. _

He sighed. Surveillance was boring work, even more boring when done solo. Since the object was to pay attention while attracting no attention, he couldn't play the radio or plug in some earbuds. With Munch busy interrogating a suspect from another of their cases, he didn't even have the distraction of pretending to listen his partner's long-winded nattering.

_I'm missing the next episode of "As the New World Government Turns". Damn._

He took some notes, angling his notebook to catch the street lamp's light. The white bungalow showed no signs of child occupancy—no toys scattered in the yard, no bikes parked on the porch, no Winnie-the-Pooh or Dora the Explorer adorning the drapes in the upstairs windows. If Reynolds planned to lure kids into the house, he hadn't yet set out any bait.

_Could be a wild-goose chase anyway. All we have is some skel's word—that and a match between Reynolds' physical characteristics and a description from a traumatized six-year-old. Casey just rolled her eyes when I asked about a warrant. Can't say I blame her. "Thin" don't describe the evidence we've got._

He stretched, tightening and relaxing each joint in his arms and legs in turn. He was too experienced to let his body get stiff---never knew when he might have to move suddenly, either to chase a suspect or save his own hide.

At his belt, his cell phone buzzed. He answered with a quiet "Tutuola".

A white female speaking with precise diction asked, "Detective Odafin Tutuola of Manhattan SUV?"

He didn't recognize the voice, which probably meant bad news. His "Yeah" was as non-committal as he could make it.

"This is Detective Judith Otten of Brooklyn South Homicide. You're parked in front of my house. Is there anything I can do to assist you?"

He glanced to his right. On the porch of the gray house, he could see an indistinct figure silhouetted by a yellow bug light.

"Yeah—give me your badge number."

The voice recited the correct number of digits. He hung up then punched three keys. When Central answered, he recited his own name, precinct, and badge number and asked to be patched through to Detective Otten.

The call connected and the figure on the porch raised a hand to its face.

"You're a cautious one," came her voice through his cell. "Good for you."

Fin smiled, glad she hadn't taken offense.

"I like living. I'm watching one of your neighbors. What can you tell me about the people in the white and green house?"

Her answer was proceeded by a warm chuckle.

"Everything, including what they had for dinner last night. You can back into the driveway and meet me on the porch. Do you want some coffee?"

He turned down the coffee then parked his car beside her house and joined her on her porch. Training made him catalogue her appearance: older then he by ten years, 5'5" and approximately 160 pounds, wearing faded blue jeans, a powder blue T-shirt under a red plaid flannel jacket, buckskin slippers. Hair was true blonde shot with gray, pulled back behind each ear with a barrette. Blue eyes, no glasses.

She held up her badge with her left hand and offered him her right hand. "What can I tell you about Jake and Sally Reynolds?"

He shook her hand, noting that she did not ask why he needed the info.

_No nonsense and professional—I like that._

He stepped over to the porch railing and leaned against, taking care to face the white bungalow while staying in the shadows cast by the porch light. "Whatever you can tell us. He may have molested a little girl last week."

Her mouth twisted as though his words tasted bad. "Jake and Sally moved in last month—the 16th. Jake I met that evening. He's around forty, 6 feet tall, 200 pounds. Brown eyes, thinning sandy hair cut short. He has a tattoo on the base of his neck—I could see a few black lines above his T-shirt collar but not the whole design. He works for the Parks Department managing ball fields and picnic pavilions. Does he sound right to you?"

Fin nodded. "Matches what Keneesha, our vic, gave us. What about his wife?"

"Sally Reynolds is mid-thirties, 5-feet eight, 125 pounds, tan from being outside, not a tanning bed. Dark brown hair with henna, hazel eyes. She is a teller at the Liberty Bank branch on Flushing Avenue. They have been married nine years and were living in an apartment near Kensington."

"Any kids?"

She shook her head.

"What's their routine?"

"They both leave around 7:30 in the same car. Jake drops Sally at the bank, then goes to his job. They come back about 5:30 except on Friday; the bank stays open an hour later so they arrive home at 6:30. Weekends and very other Wednesday, weather permitting, they go somewhere on their Harley. They're usually back by 9:00."

He blinked at the details she had given him.

_Damn—my neighbors don't know half this much about me and Jake's only been here a month._

Detective Otten must have guessed his thoughts because she grinned. "This information is a distillation of many conversations. Jenny Slocum next door takes over some fresh bread as a welcome gift and learns about Sally's job. Pete Polyniak sees the Harley while walking his dog and stops to talk bikes with Jake. Sally sees me getting my mail today and mentions their going out for dinner. Each conversation gets reported to every other neighbor so that we all end up knowing everything."

He mulled over then asked, "What about my being here? Could that get back to Reynolds?"

"It might, but I doubt it. My husband also was on the job. We made our neighbors feel secure and they respect our privacy. David once ran a sting on a theft ring from our house. Our neighbors never noticed."

Something tugged at his memory—theft, Otten, David. A few moments' thought and it came together.

"You're talking about Captain David Otten, Brooklyn Robbery Division?"

She nodded.

_I remember hearing about him. Year ago January, a night with sleet and everyone down with the 'flu. Captain Otten heads out with a white-shield to check out an apartment robbery. Semi slides on the ice and crushes his car against a guardrail. When the bus gets there, they're both DOA._

"I worked with him when I was in Narcotics. His people thought the world of him."

She stared at the porch floor. "Yes, he loved the job and it showed."

After a deep sigh, she lifted her head. "Are you planning to watch the Reynolds' house? You will be more comfortable and less obvious if you use the front room. I can lend you a key if you want."

"Sure beats sittin' in a car with the entire neighborhood talking about me. I'll discuss it with my partner and get back to you."

She slid a business card from behind her badge and handed it to him. "Could I ask a favor?"

"If I can, it's yours."

She stuck her hands in her pockets. 'I'm on the transfer list. Would you mention me to Captain Cragen? I'm not looking for a full recommendation—just a reminder that I'm available when he needs someone."

Fin rocked back on his heels and gave her a hard stare. "Why you want to join SVU? The job will suck the soul right out of you."

Her mouth twisted again as she nodded. "I know, but I don't want Robbery. I'm not a good fit with Vice any more—same with Narcotics. After sixteen years in Homicide, I need a change and I'm vain enough to believe that I'm up for the challenge. If you're not comfortable with it, I understand."

"Why you need a change?"

She returned his stare. "We have a new lieutenant; he's twenty years my junior and appears to think that I'm too old and frail for full duty."

He snorted. She responded with a mirthless chuckle.

"I earned my seniority and I see no reason to prove myself again for the same job. I know Don Cragen will give me a fair chance."

"He'll do that. If you end up with us, it might be the last bit of 'fair' you'll see."

She nodded her head. "David and I adopted older boys; I know the kinds of hell that are out there and I can handle it as well as anyone can."

"No one handles it well. I'll put in a word. Don't be surprised if you hear nothing; Cragen's picky."

"I understand. He should be."

A low rumble sounded in the distance. They both looked toward the far end of Westheimer, where a blue Harley was rounding the corner. Fin checked his watch.

"9:15. They're running late."

"Blame your informant; I would."

He laughed. "Once they're in the house, I'll leave. I'll get back to you on the stake-out."

"Good. Please take care, Detective Tutuola."

"You, too. G'night."

Fin turned to watch the Harley pull into the Reynolds' driveway while Otten went inside.

_If I was a nice guy, I'd forget this. Cap'n will grab her and use her until she's all used up—just like he does the rest of us. We get thrown into the breach because the victims just keep comin' and there's no way to stop it except keep tryin'._

He thought about Keneesha, the latest in a long series of small faces that haunted his dreams. He held her image in mind until the lights went on in the Reynolds' house.

_If you're the one that hurt her, you might sleep well tonight, but you won't get many more good nights. I'll see to that._

He got into his car and headed back to the One-Six.


	3. Sofarelli

April 30th

SUV Squad Room

Elliot Stabler worked his keyboard, transferring info from his notes to the screen. Putting the infinite number of required DD forms on computers made them easier for the brass to read, but it didn't make them any quicker to fill out.

"This job sucks because of the paperwork."

His partner looked up from the file that she was reading. Olivia had been on stake-out the evening before and no skill with makeup could hide the tired lines under her eyes.

"This job sucks because of the hours."

Stabler stopped typing and took a swig from the mug by his keyboard.

"This job sucks because of the coffee."

Both Benson and Stabler swiveled their chairs so they could stare at the perpetrator of the morning's coffee. Munch folded his newspaper and peered back at them, eyebrows raised high over his glasses.

"This job sucks because of the untenable calumny from my fellow detectives."

Fin didn't look up from the file that he was reading.

"This job sucks because my partner's a thesaurus."

Stabler slowly spun his chair back to face his keyboard and continued the game.

"This job sucks because of the—Couch!"

All three detectives followed his gaze to the room's entrance. There, a tall man with curly black hair and olive skin stood, the door swinging shut behind him. He wore a pale blue shirt, navy tie and slacks with a dark gray sports coat that draped poorly over his shoulder holster. A large manila folder was tucked under his left arm, his right hand was extended towards Stabler.

"Elliot—it's been a while."

Stabler left his chair to greet him with a handshake and a couple of slaps on his shoulder.

"Guys—this is Detective Alphonse Sofarelli, a.k.a Couch. My last year as a uniform, he was my rookie. Here, have a seat."

He led the newcomer to the chair by his desk. After introductions had been made, and the other detectives had returned to their reading, Stabler asked, "What brings you here, Al? Nothing shaking in Robbery today?"

Couch's laugh was short and sharp. "There's plenty shaking; that's what brought me here."

He handed Elliot the manila file. "You'd better go through this. The case will be yours soon."

Stabler thumbed through the first few pages, then slid the file over to Olivia's desk.

"Liv—looks like Couch has an escalator for us."

As soon as he had her attention, Sofarelli reviewed the case for them.

"It started as a series of break-ins around Dykeman Street. The first three reported missing money and small valuables. Access via a fire escape, window locks jimmied, no fingerprints on sills or furniture.

"The perp then began to steal undergarments along with the money and jewelry. We had three occurrences of that then two reports of creamed panties in drawers with the robberies; the second was a week ago Friday night."

Stabler glanced at his partner, who nodded back at him. "Definitely working up the chain," she said.

"Or down it," he replied. "Depends on your point-of-view. Al, is there more?"

Sofarelli leaned over to shuffle some papers in the file. "Two nights ago, we had a report of a woman who woke up to someone standing by her dresser. She threw a pillow at him and he escaped through her window. Seems he was masturbating into her underwear drawer. We found her wallet emptied of cash and cards. Same items stolen, same mode of entry…."

Olivia finished the sentence. "…but he's jumped to masturbation with the victim present. Not a good sign."

"Your C.O. know you're sharing case files?"

The question came from Captain Cragen, who had walked over and was standing behind Stabler. Detective Sofarelli stood and nodded.

"Lieutenant Anders isn't thrilled—he'd rather keep the collar and the credit, but he knows we're no closer today than we were after the first break-in. If the perp keeps this up, it will be your case. You'll need every edge you can get."

"I'll touch base with Anders; let him know we won't step on his toes unless he calls us in. Thanks, Detective."

Cragen headed for the coffeepot. Sofarelli sat down and Stabler pointed a thumb over his shoulder at his commanding officer.

"What he said. We don't get a lot of cooperation from the other squads."

"Yeah," Olivia chimed in. "What made you think of us?"

Couch leaned forward in his chair. He stared directly at Benson, then glanced at Elliot as if he needed more time to decide to tell her than Stabler.

"When I made detective, I went to Vice. It didn't take long to learn that I would never grow the right calluses to be a good vice cop. No matter how hard I tried, the people involved never became johns and whores—they stayed people. You remember the perp a couple years ago—thought he was Jack the Ripper 2003?

Both partners nodded. The McKibben case—Munch and Fin had caught that one; two more victims died before they closed the case.

"M partner and I found his second victim. Steve was able to shrug it off—"Those who peddle their asses should expect to get slashes"—but I kept picturing her grieving parents, the kids she never would raise, the life she could have lived. That made me ditch Vice for Robbery. It wasn't as glamorous, but I could sleep at night."

Both men stared at the desk top, Couch lost in memories, Stabler thinking how hard it was to balance between necessary detachment and callousness. Benson broke the silence.

"'Sleeping at night'—I've heard of that. Doesn't it involve spending time at home in bed when it's dark out?"

The two men chuckled at her joke. Stabler responded, "We give up sleep and, in exchange, we get all the vile coffee we can choke down. For some reason, the brass thinks it's a good deal."

"They must get a good price on ersatz coffee, stuff left over from WWII," countered Couch. "Remember the swill Sergeant Raz used to make? That stuff grew hair on your chest and every other body part."

Elliot and his former partner exchanged stories for a while, then Couch stood to leave. Elliot walked him to the elevator.

Sofarelli said, "Anders will let you know if this guy—"

"Not 'if', Couch. It's 'when'. If this guy stops at jerking off around sleeping victims, he'll be the first."

"Yeah."

Couch reached for the elevator call button, but let his hand fall back to his side.

"Elliot, could you put in a good word with your captain for me?"

"You want to work the case with us? Sure, Al—no problem. I'll…"

Couch interrupted him. "No. I'm looking to transfer. I figure a good word from you can't hurt."

Elliot crossed his arms and tipped back his head to glare straight into his former partner's eyes.

"SVU is a volunteer squad, but we wonder about the people who volunteer. Why you?"

"You remember Hanan, don't you?"

Elliot remembered a tall, slim woman with dark hair and eyes.

"You mean your wife? The one you spent nine hours of every eight-hour shift talking about?"

Couch's wry smile showed his embarrassment at that memory. "Anyway, Hanan finished her Master's and went to work as a caseworker with ACS. Every night, there's another horror story. I'm working robberies and she's coping with kids who have been hurt in every way possible. I listen to her and I want to do something."

"You sure that something is sex crimes?"

Couch stared straight at Elliot. "Yes."

Stabler drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly, not as much a sigh as a stalling tactic.

"You heard about Kathy and me?"

His former partner nodded. "Yeah, I heard. That's got to be rough."

"It's more than rough. This job sucks everything from you, even your family. It's not long before nailing the perp is more important than being with the people you love. Once that happens, you blink and there's no one around but perps—everyone else is gone. You don't want that—trust me, you don't."

Couch's gaze did not waver. "I hear you. Both me and Hanan have given this a lot of thought and I want this. You going to help?

Elliot shifted his weight on his feet. "Yeah, I'll talk to Cragen. Don't rush back to Robbery and start packing. I haven't heard any rumors about openings here."

"Thanks, Elliot. That's all I'm asking." Couch pushed the call button. "When you see your kids and Kathy, give them my best, okay?"

"Yeah, and the same to Hanan from me."

Stabler watched the elevator doors close behind his former partner, then he headed to Cragen's office.


	4. Selection

* * *

May 19th

Captain Cragen's Office

The report hit the desks of all NYPD commanding officers by 8:30 a.m. By 8:31 a.m., all COs were pouring through its bureaucratic boilerplate, searching for clues, hints, and broad signposts pointing to the futures of their commands.

Don Cragen found his buried deep inside in a chart set in Arial 8-point and denoted by the exciting heading "Table 17: New York City Police Department Roster Counts by Precinct for the Coming Fiscal Year."

Precinct: 16th

Detectives: Special Victims Unit: 16

Average Salary: $55,113

His usual hang-dog expression brightened.

_Two more detectives. It's about time._

Manhattan SVU had been running short-staffed since the loss of Briscoe, Cassidy, and Jeffries in relatively quick succession a few years earlier. Budgetary belt-tightening prevented Cragen from replacing Briscoe and Cassidy and only by calling in numerous favors had he managed to snag Tutuola to counter Jeffries' sudden suspension. Two new detectives would bring the squad back up to its listed roster count.

_Yes--we'll go from completely overwhelmed by our caseload to merely overwhelmed. Talk about a great improvement._

His phone rang.

"Don?"

Cragen's posture straightened in his chair. Despite years of his own command, the voice of the Chief of Detectives still had that effect on him.

"Yes, sir?"

"See next year's budget report?"

"I have it in front of me now, sir."

"Have you read page nineteen?"

When he heard Cragen's affirmation, the Chief's tone softened.

"How fast can you get me your picks for those two slots?"

"How fast do you need them, sir?"

"If you get me two names by 9:30 a.m. today, I'll see that they're in your squad room before the beginning of next week."

The canned "Yes, sir" dried on Cragen's tongue.

_That soon? Not "...after the fiscal year starts" or "...as soon as we can arrange it? Not even "...after everyone else gets their choice, you can have what's left"?_

"Pardon me, Chief—but what's the catch?"

The Chief chuckled. "I spotted eight reindeer on the roof of the One-Six. Seems Santa's come early this year. You and your squad have been doing a great job and it's time you reaped some reward for your efforts."

Cragen swung the phone's mouthpiece away from his mouth, just in case he accidentally voiced his reaction.

_Bullshit. If he thinks years of putting up with IAD hounding us, One PP hamstringing us, and his own petty interference can be wiped away with two new bodies in my squad, he's not only short-sighted—he's senile._

Cragen returned the mouthpiece to his face.

"Thank you, Chief. I'll e-mail those names to you by 9:30."

He said his good-byes and hung up. Doing his job meant knowing when to fight NYPD's bureaucracy and when to use it. As good as it would feel to tell the Chief what to suck and how long to suck it, better to save that for when the Chief wasn't bearing gifts.

Cragen tossed the budget report aside and displayed on his computer screen the list of detectives available for reassignment. A few clicks and he had the names of the seventeen detectives volunteering for SVU placements. He scrolled down the list.

_I need people who can put the victims first without destroying themselves or the team. No one like Cassidy; he had only a "High" setting on his compassion level. No one like Briscoe; he didn't yet have the experience to run a high-visibility investigation. No one like Jeffries..._

He frowned as he thought about Monique Jeffries. Not only had he failed to see any signs of her pending meltdown, but he had completely botched his handling of it and her, a failure that cost the department a good cop.

_But I didn't pick Jeffries or Ken Briscoe—they were here when I took command. Now Brian—hell, I transferred him in and I hated forcing him out. It was too much like kicking a puppy so it wouldn't follow me any more._

That Brian Cassidy had been very successful after his move to Narcotics was scant comfort. The damage had been done, both in time lost to Cassidy's career and to the victims poorly served well by Cassidy's misplacement.

Cragen turned his attention to the transfer list. He had thirty-five minutes to winnow the names and find the right two detectives for his unit.

His first pass eliminated anyone from Forensics and the Special Investigation Divisions; their detectives rarely dealt directly with living, hurting victims. He also dropped those who didn't have at least four years at detective rank or whose only street experience was in uniform.

_It's not SVU's job to provide on-the-job training. Brian and Ken proved that._

Cragen also dropped two because of rumors that both were in the middle of divorces. Before doing so, he glanced at the squad room where Stabler, the senior detective on this shift, was talking to a uniformed sergeant.

_This job takes enough out of a person. No sense choosing a person who's already chin-deep in personal problems._

This left him with six names:

Charles, Louis J., 65th Precinct Detective Squad  
Languages: None  
Born: Tonawanda, NY  
College: SUNY-Buffalo  
Military Service: None  
Commendations: Commendation (1), Meritorious Police Duty (1)

Guerrero, Gilberto Palomino, Central Park Precinct Detective Squad  
Languages: Spanish  
Born: San Diego, CA  
College: None  
Military Service: USMC  
Commendations: Commendation (1)

Loudoun, Donna Jo, Special Frauds Squad  
Languages: None  
Born Walnut Grove, WV  
College: West Virginia University, Morgantown  
Military Service: None  
Commendations: Commendation (2), Excellent Police Duty (1)

Otten, Judith F., Brooklyn South Homicide Squad  
Languages: German, French, Hebrew, Italian  
Born: Basel, Switzerland (U.S. Citizen)  
College: Williamsburg College  
Military Service: None  
Commendations: Commendation (3), Excellent Police Duty (1), Medal of Valor (1)

Packer, Tarquin, 112th Precinct Detective Squad  
Languages: Creole, French  
Born Brooklyn, NY  
College: CUNY  
Military Service: USCG  
Commendations: Commendation (3), Police Combat Cross (1)

Sofarelli, Alphonse, Manhattan Robbery Squad  
Languages: Arabic, Farsi, Spanish  
Born: Houston, TX  
College: Hudson University  
Military Service: None  
Commendations: Commendation (2), Meritorious Police Duty (2)

Each name came with a link to the detective's online file.

_Okay—twenty-eight minutes to pick the best two of these six. Should I draw them out of a hat or throw darts at my screen? How about reversal alphabetical order?_

He read through Alphonse Sofarelli's file. It looked very good—time in Vice, time in Robbery, useful language skills...Cragen noted Sofarelli's lack of military service and his birthplace.

_Maybe his dad was in the oil business. If so, gutsy of him to take his family overseas with him. We're seeing more Arabs both as victims and perps; having someone who understands the culture and language would be a big help.._

It also was one of the points Stabler had brought up in his recommendation. Cragen thought back on that conversation. After Elliot laid out all the reasons that his former partner should join the squad, Cragen asked a question.

April 30th  
Captain Cragen' Office

"Look, Elliot—you make a good case for Sofarelli, but he sound like a crusader. Is he?"

Cragen glanced through the office blinds to Olivia Benson, seated at her desk. Elliot followed the glance and shook his head.

"He doesn't have anything like Liv's background. Couch sees the need and wants to fill it."

Cragen sighed. "I have enough people who want to fill needs. What I need are detectives who can solve cases and stay sane doing it."

Stabler's lopsided grin matched his rueful tone.

"I can't vouch for Couch's sanity—hell, he wants to join us. Suppose I told you that I've never seen him lose his temper, no matter how far some skel tried to push him. Would that make you feel better?"

Cragen straightened in his chair.

"Now I believe he's insane. Everyone gets mad sooner or later."

"Not Couch. I think it comes from his martial arts training—he's a third-degree black belt. He said the discipline teaches control."

"Which martial art?"

Stabler shrugged. "Dim Sum Do? I don't remember. Couch teaches three days a week somewhere off Houston; there are a lot of cops in his classes."

Cragen gave Elliot a "maybe you should study with him" look. When Stabler didn't rise to the bait, he wrapped up the conversation.

May 19th  
Captain Cragen's Office

_Okay, he's got the experience, the languages, the kung fu moves—I'm convinced._

Cragen wrote Alphonse Sofarelli's name on a piece of scrap paper. He then considered Tarquin Parker.

_I know Tarq—he wants to move to the 'burbs so bad that a posting here would get me fragged._

He next read through Judith Otten's info. She also looked good—serious commendations, thirty-two years' on the job—three with Vice, five with Organized Crime Investigation Division, sixteen with Homicide.

_With that background, she'll be meticulous in her investigations. Good close rate, too. Fin was as enthusiastic over her as he ever gets. "Professional, no-nonsense, and she's got experience with troubled kids. Think about her, Cap'n—she'll do good here."_

Cragen glanced at Fin, who stood by his partner's desk watching Munch wave his arms over a tall stack of manila folders. Judging from the sour expression on Fin's face, he was in a deep philosophic discussion about who should file those folders.

_Sorry, Fin. Munch already has Otten's knowledge and experience. He might be a pain as a partner, but he's so good a detective that I don't need another like him._

He moved on to Donna Jo Loudoun. Nothing in her info excited him and Liv's words touting her had been as noncommittal as they come.

_It's as though she felt obligated to her friend, but really didn't want me to pick her. My apologies if I read you wrong, Liv._

He next read through the info on the remaining two: Louis Charles and Gilberto Guerrero. Both seemed good from their info and Cragen knew of no dirt on either of them.

_But Gil can't tell a joke and he never stops trying. The last thing a vic needs is a bad comedian. It's a stupid thing to ding a guy on, but all it takes is one inappropriate comment and all hell breaks loose._

Cragen reread Charles' info—four years with Auto Crime Unit before the Six-Five, no red flags, sufficient experience and commendations, nothing to prevent his being chosen-but nothing to make anyone jump up and down with glee when he walked into the squad room.

_Well, there is nothing wrong with competency. He'll undoubtedly do._

He wrote Charles' name under Sofarelli's then looked through his window at the SVU squad. Olivia and Elliot were standing over her desk. By craning his neck, Cragen could see crime scene photos scattered over the desktop. Both detectives were considering a photo pinned by Benson's index finger.

_They both combine pure energy and painstaking police work. It amazes me that those two hold it together, but they manage to do so. I'm glad to have both of them, but I wouldn't want any more like them._

Fin now sat at his desk with a satisfied smirk on his face. Across from him scowled Munch. As Cragen watched, Munch gathered himself and stood up slowly. Cragen almost could hear the joints crackle and pop as Munch reached for the stack of folders.

_Nothing new there—anyone who had seen John lose an argument had witnessed this sympathy ploy—"How can you make a poor, worn-out detective do so much hard work?" He even tries it on me and we're contemporaries._

What was new was the look of concern on Fin's face as he watched his partner carry the folders to the file cabinets. Cragen shifted his attention to the older detective. Yes, he was favoring his left leg again. Yes, he had gone gray awfully quickly. Yes, Fin was watching him, eyes hooded and no sign of his triumphant smirk.

_John turns sixty this year—that's three years to retirement. Getting shot didn't help that limp of his any. If Fin is worrying, then I need to worry—John's my friend and he's a big part of this squad. We'll lose a lot if he leaves._

Cragen looked again at the six names on his computer screen and the two names written on the scrap paper. He sighed once then drew a line through Louis Charles' name and wrote Judith Otten's name under it.

_This better not jinx John. I'd rather he made it all the way to retirement with no more than a few aches and pains. But, just in case he ..._

Cragen cut off that thought and composed his e-mail to the Chief. It went off with four minutes to spare.


	5. Getting to Know You

May 21st  
SVU Squad Room

Olivia noticed the first signs of change in the squad room when she arrived for the start of the evening shift. A space had been cleared in front of the interrogation room of the desks and an orange traffic cone stood in the center of that space. Elliot, Munch, and Fin were gathered around the cone.

"What is that doing there?" she asked as she joined the group.

"Pothole," responded Fin. "Damn things are everywhere."

Elliot chuckled. "Don't know, Liv. We were wondering ourselves."

She reached down and lifted the cone. A tangle of wires fell from its base.

"Looks like safety-conscious rats. Maybe IAB doesn't want us tripping over their half-finished bug installation."

"Hardly." Munch poked the wires with the toe of his shoe. "Cat-5, four-strand, and 3-conductor #14—this is wiring for computer, phone, and power outlets. Were this actual wiring for hidden cameras, it would be video S-cable. Note that there are two of each type of wire."

He peered at the other detectives over his dark lenses. "We're looking at the hook-ups for two desks. Guess what that means."

Elliot grinned. "A chance for some time off."

Fin shook his head. "Naw—cases multiply to match the number of detectives available. We'll be as swamped as ever."

Olivia laughed. "You're starting to sound like your partner"

Fin's eyes narrowed; Munch's stare came at her down the length of his nose. Both glares told her how unwelcome her gibe was. She retreated to her desk as the shift began.

Arriving at the station house for the next few shifts was like watching a skyscraper rise via time-lapse photos. Each night showed new progress. First, the cables then two metal floor plates with appropriate sockets for computer, phone, and electric plugs. Then came desks, heavy gray metal ones with matching chairs. The next day brought desk accessories—waste baskets, lamps, calendar blotters, and stacking document boxes. Friday night, they discovered that the desks had sprouted two flat screens with matching keyboards and mice.

"We come in tomorrow, there'll be detectives sitting there," she said to her partner.

"Let's hope they're younger than those desks, " he answered. "If furniture could retire, they'd have left for Florida before you and I joined the force."

The next night found two cardboard boxes on the desks and two strangers standing next to Captain Cragen at the start of the shift meeting. Cragen introduced them as the new detectives. Benson looked them over while the captain updated the current cases.

_Al Sofarelli, Elliot's rookie partner. Not bad, if you like the dark, smoldering Italian type. Married, though—Elliot mentioned a wife and he's wearing a ring. She should help him dress; no one should wear a peach tie with that shirt. I like the way he's checking each of us out while Cragen talks. I like the way he grinned at Elliot; maybe Couch can get him to stop brooding and get a handle on things. _

_Judith Otten—damn, but she's a mess. Someone should hold her down and pluck her eyebrows, that and rinse the gray from her hair. Nails too short, no jewelry except for pearl ear studs, and those shoes—great to chase perps in but they do nothing for her legs. That's expensive wool in her pants and jacket—dark blue with that cream blouse. It all fits her well, but I don't recognize the designer. She gave us a thorough look-over with only no change of expression. Now she's listening to Cragen's update with the same intentness. I hope she knows how to unbend after hours; otherwise, Homicide or not, she'll shatter before she closes her second case._

"…Stabler and Benson will keep working their current case. Anything else?"

As the meeting broke up, Cragen waved Munch and Fin over to join him and the new detectives. Olivia went to her partner's desk, where Elliot sat staring at the same crime scene photos that had held their attention for the past week. Both had the feeling that they had missed something, but no amount of staring made it leap out and shout "Here I am!"

"Happy about Couch being here?" she asked.

Elliot shrugged. "Don't know yet. If Couch can't hack it, it'll be harder to watch him fail than a stranger."

"You think Cragen's going to split up John and Fin?"

His answer was more cough than chuckle.

"I'd like to see Couch and John on stake-out. They'll drown each other in words. Captain's plan is to partner Couch and Otten after John and Fin show them the ropes. You and I'd get the fun, if it wasn't for this."

He tapped the photos scattered on their desks. "Three rapes, one doer with no record, no pattern, nothing in common. What are we missing?"

Olivia picked up a handful of photos—pavement bordered by chain link and littered with purse contents and torn panties, close-up of bare shoulder skin marred by fingertip-sized bruises, used ribbed condom on asphalt—and dropped them to the desktop.

"Rearrange them and they still don't make sense. Damn—I don't want to wait for the next vic to learn what ties all of them together."

Elliot stood up without warning. "Enough photos—let's go reinterview everyone. Maybe someone will remember what we can't see."

He was out the door before she could grab her notepad, leaving her to tell Cragen their plans, then hurry to catch up.

Munch spent the daily update staring at the shorter of the two new detectives.

_Why did Don bring another murder police here? We have me—how much more skill and experience does he need? I can understand choosing Sofarelli; we don't have anyone from Robbery, but her? Brooklyn contacts don't count for anything here in Manhattan and her snitches will be as much use to her as the ones I left in Baltimore. Why her? What is Cragen planning? _

After the meeting, Cragen made personal introductions. John shook her hand and received in return a firm handshake and a polite smile. Tightness knotted already taut neck muscles. He flexed his shoulders—more fidget than stretch.

_That was one cold greeting. How dare she inspect me like a slab of suspect meat? I've got her on experience and time on the unit. I'm the one who should be doing the judging._

He started paying attention again when Cragen paired them up—Fin with Otten, Sofarelli with him. Cragen pointed out to the new detectives their lockers and desks and told them to getting settled.

He then motioned John and Fin closer.

"I know you two'd rather work together, but I've pulled Stabler and Benson from rotation so they can concentrate on their rapes. It's only for a day or two. Give them the nickel tour, introduce them around, make sure they know where the supplies are…."

Chloe, the shift's admin aide, interrupted him with a phone message. Cragen glanced at the note, grimaced, and turned toward his office.

"Whatever comes down tonight," he said to them, "it's all yours."

There was a moment of silence after he left, which Fin ended by leaning close to John.

"Did you notice that I got the girl?"

"Yes. So?"

Fin's smile spread to a triumphant grin. "That makes me the hero and you the sidekick."

It was the latest salvo in an ongoing debate about who deserved the nifty hero uniform and who got the dorky sidekick one. Fin's remark was too pointed to ignore.

"In your dreams, partner," he responded. "American history and folklore set the standard back in the 1700s; heroes must be tall. Paul Bunyun, Pecos Bill, George Washington, Superman, JFK—all tall, all heroic."

He drew himself up and looked down at his partner, making the most of his two-inch advantage.

"You should have chosen taller parents. Their lack of stature forever dooms you to the role of sidekick. Besides, the 'girl' hasn't been one for decades. The hero gets only young, good-looking women."

Until the last line, Fin had been enjoying his riff. The tightening of his lips and the quick shift of his gaze to John's right warned him to drop the subject. John turned to find that Otten and Sofarelli had rejoined them. Sofarelli looked amused by the exchange, but Otten was frowning.

_That's the way to stay under her radar—get caught calling her old and ugly._

"Fin, you watch the phones. I'll show Sofarelli the house then you can take Otten around."

John grabbed Sofarelli by the upper arm and steered him out the squad room's door. Once in the hallway, he turned to face the new guy.

"Do you prefer your last name, your first name, or your nickname?"

Sofarelli answered without pause. "Either Al or Couch. Sofarelli takes too long to say. You?"

"Munch. John if you're buying the beer or after you survive more than a week here. Should I take it as given that you've heard every possible furniture joke?"

Couch nodded once. "Definitely, all before third grade."

"How about a 30-second rundown on your life's story?"

Couch glanced at his watch and grinned. "I'm an oil field brat, born in Houston, raised in east Texas and Saudi Arabia. Schooling ends there with the freshman year, so my parents sent me to my aunt and uncle in Queens to finish high school. Dad wanted me to study geology and follow his footsteps, but I'd seen enough sand. The rest is normal—college, the Academy, and so on. I married Hanan my rookie year. No kids yet."

"You speak Arabic?"

"هو أيضا مفيدة أن يخسر. قلتني تاريخك."

"Did you just compare me to a camel?"

"I said the skill was too useful to lose and asked you about your history."

Munch shrugged. "I also grew up in exotic places—Pikesville, Maryland with visits to the Lower East Side when my father's job situation—or lack thereof—warranted. I did my thirty with Baltimore's finest, seventeen in Homicide, then moved here because SVU needed my expertise. Four divorces, no kids."

He took a step down the hall. "Ready for the nickel tour?"

"What's included? I might want to pay for an upgrade."

"The nickel tour skips the little girls' room. Save your money; it's better if you don't know how much nicer their facilities are. They get fainting couches, marble bidets, hot and cold running perfume while we get one roll of sandpaper each quarter—it's the NYPD version of Title IX."

"So," said Couch, "if I want comfort while I read the morning paper, I should wear a dress?"

John swallowed a chuckle. "We're not set up for the transgendered yet. Good comeback, by the way. You'll go far here. Before you go, let me show you around."

They spent the next half-hour roaming the station house. John showed Couch the work-out and locker rooms—"not that I need to spend time here, but Elliot will draft you to spot when he lifts"—and introduced him to Desk Sergeant Valeri and the motor pool guys—"Treat these gentlemen with respect; there's nothing like a car without no heat for a long winter night's stakeout." He bypassed Robbery—"you already know these guys"—to drag him through the crib—"Avoid that cot; the mattress is older than I am". He then explained the differences between the interrogation room, the interview rooms, and the specially decorated room for child interviews.

"It's the only room in the house with lead-free paint. The brass doesn't care if we chew on the walls and enfeeble our brains with lead poisoning as long as the children are safe."

Munch waved a hand at the bright yellow walls, the crayon colors of the murals, and the child-sized furniture.

"Seriously, this does make the job easier. When I started here, we interviewed the children at our desks or in Cragen's office. Having a cheerful familiar-looking place helps the kids relax and makes it easier for them to talk about things."

The last stop was the roof. Munch stepped into the darkness and listened until he heard the access door swing shut and Couch's footstep on the gravel behind him. Traffic noise filled the night and the light streaming from the windows of the apartments and offices looming over the One-Six both masked and replaced the stars that no New Yorker ever got to see.

"This isn't a bad place for getting away from it all," he told Couch. "Of course, a better place would be Bora Bora, but it's hard to get there when we need to."

He turned to face the new guy. "If your partner comes up here and stays too long, check on her. We all watch out for one another like that. No one's leapt yet and we want to keep it that way."

He waited for the new guy to deny the possibility of cracking under pressure. What he saw was Couch nodding thoughtfully.

"So the roof is both sanctuary and temptation. It's like the rest of the house—dueling forces in every room."

John raised one eyebrow, an invitation for Couch to explain. The younger man leaned against the access door and crossed his arms, his head nodding slightly as he spoke.

"Precinct houses can be seen in two different ways. We see them as useful; the rooms hold and control suspects, give us a place to do our job, enable us to work past our limits when necessary. Civilians see it differently—they wait or are held in those rooms, so they feel helpless and trapped; they grieve or are angered by what is happening to them. The walls absorb the emotions and emit them back at us. We have to keep finding a place of balance amid the conflicts so we can do our jobs."

John dropped his head, shifting his view of Couch from under his lenses to over.

"What makes you think so?"

Couch unfolded his arms and held his hands in front of his chest, palms down.

"It's a combination of my faith—I'm Lutheran: law and gospel, faith and works all form balanced relationships in my belief—and the basic philosophy of the martial arts I study. The vital energy, Ki, is made up of Um and Yang, two opposing forces that are equal. Each requires the other to exist and we have harmony when they are balanced."

His hands see-sawed as he talked until he mentioned 'harmony'. Then, he held them level and even.

"Without balance, we can't do good."

It took a moment or two before Munch could put a name to his reaction to Couch's explanation, it had been so long since he'd felt the emotion. He moved to Sofarelli's side, clasped his shoulder and grinned.

"Couch, I'm delighted you're joining us. I'm going to enjoy our future conversations. Unfortunately, we have to cut this one short or Fin will be up here to drag us bodily down the stairs."

Back in the squad room, Fin and Otten were leafing through an open file cabinet. Fin met Munch by their desks. Couch walked over to where Otten was standing.

Fin said, "'bout time your bony ass got back here."

"I gave him the grand tour. How's Otten working out?"

"Fine."

John leaned closer and dropped his voice to a whisper.

"She say anything about me?"

"Yeah." Fin matched John's conspiratorial tones. "She asked how long you'd been on the job. I told her. She said 'Oh.' ''

" 'Oh?' ''

"You got it."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah—she said you were great in bed."

"What!"

The air drying his mouth told John that his jaw had dropped. Fin's broad grin signaled another mark in his win column. John drew back and sighed.

"You enjoy giving me infarctions!"

"Sure do. Here—have another one."

He handed John a slip of paper. "Man taking out the trash found a woman dead in the alleyway."

John grabbed the paper. "Fine. You play tour guide while I show Couch how it's done. I'm feeling intelligent tonight so you can mark the case closed."

He spun away from his partner and grabbed a set of keys from Fin's desk.

"Hey, Al—you drive."

He tossed the keys in Couch's directions and headed out the door, hoping that his swiftness didn't look too much like retreat.

May 21st  
Madison and 123rd Street

The night was clear and warm. Couch drove while Munch gave him the few facts available about the new case.

John then asked, "You were Vice, then Robbery—right?"

Couch glanced from the street to Munch. "Yep."

"So you don't have much experience with grieving victims and family?"

"No. Robbery vics are either angry or frightened."

"And your experience with dead bodies is limited to McKibben's second victim?"

"Murdered ones? Yes, but I worked a few suicides and car accidents back on patrol."

Munch pursed his lips. "Accidental death is a shame and suicide is a terrible thing to do to whomever finds the body. What we'll be dealing with from here on—child murder, forcible rape, molestation, mutilation—brings with it more outrage and horror than any case you've ever handled. I can warn you, but nothing I say will prepare you for the reality of it."

The younger man's hands shifted on the steering wheel. Munch bet that they were starting to sweat.

"There is no way to face the horrific things that we see without being affected. You'll have nightmares; you'll lose your appetite; you'll become paranoid about your family's safety or start suspecting them, wondering if that remark your brother-in-law made about his daughter's beauty means he's doing her. It's something we have to deal with. Remember—no one handles it well, but we have to handle it nevertheless. If you can't make allowances for how our cases affect you, you'll implode."

Couch's gaze shifted from road to Munch to road as the message sank in.

"Any suggestions?" he asked.

"You mean a sure-fire method to prevent a midnight meal of service revolver? I wish. I can tell you that drinking doesn't work and neither does whoring or drugs. I suspect that talking might help, but none of my ex-wives listened unless I was praising their supposed beauty and accomplishments. Elliot said that your wife works with ACS. Think she can handle listening to you?"

"I hope so. I listen to her horror stories and it seems to help her. Is this where we're going?"

Couch turned the corner onto 123rd street. A block ahead, flashing lights and a small crowd of people hemmed by yellow tape denoted the crime scene. He double-parked and the two men got out.

"Which do you like to do first after we get the news from the uniforms—talk to the witnesses or examine the crime scene?"

"Witnesses," Couch answered. "Give them as little time as possible to think about what their answers might mean."

Munch chuckled. "If they thought at all, they wouldn't hang around to be interviewed, would they? I like seeing the scene, so we'll work it that way."

The next hour was spent 'that way'. They both talked to the responding uniforms…

"We got the call at 22:07. That man, Robert Byelick, found the body when he went to dump his trash. He made the call. Victim is Yvonne White, apartment 4C. Twenty-eight, worked as a clerk for the Department of Sanitation."

"Who ID'ed her?"

The older uniform pointed to a woman sitting on the apartment's stoop. "Her roommate, Devona Sparks. She was out clubbing when it happened. According to her, White planned a quiet evening alone watching some movie on TV."

…then the CSU tech…

"She fell from the fourth floor; we found scuff marks on the rusty grating indicating a struggle. We also found some fabric snagged on the stair leading up to the fifth floor—faded blue denim is my guess. There's no sign the window off the fire escape was forced. Vic's clothing is intact, so maybe you can hand this back to Homicide."

...then the assistant ME…

"Hector's right about the fall—four stories, straight down. Someone lifted her over the railing, turned her over and dropped her on her head. The Latin for her injuries translates to 'shattered like a thrown melon'".

Couch winced and the ME snickered at his queasiness. Munch's withering glare put him back on topic.

"We found semen in her mouth so you'll have DNA as soon as we run the tests. There's bruising around her neck, wrists, and ankles; judging from the size of the marks, made by male hands. She probably was choked into unconsciousness on the fire escape then dropped. Time of death, less than ninety minutes before she was found. I scrapped her nails but I didn't see anything under them."

They then went their separate ways—Couch to Byelick and the roommate, Munch to the body, now lit by the bright white glare of a portable work light. He pulled on gloves and examined Yvonne White with thorough care.

_Nice looking—if you disregard the inside-outness of her head. No signs of damage to her clothing, no rips or snags on her t-shirt and jeans—that means we have to check every suspect for ripped jeans. Can't be more than 50,000 pairs of those just in Lower Manhattan. Nike Calmas on her feet—make sure CSU compares her soles to those scuff marks. No nail damage so she trusted her assailant enough to let him choke her or she didn't have a chance to mark him. Either way, damn._

He stood up, grunting at the stiffness in his legs and back.

_I'm sorry, Yvonne. No one deserves this._

He nodded to the uniform stationed by the entrance to the alley.

"Anyone but us been back here since you arrived?"

"No, sir. Sarge said only CSU, the ME, and you detectives were allowed."

"Good. Thanks."

He shifted the light so it illumined the alley and paced its length, checked the littered pavement for anything unusual. A cluster of cigarette butts caught his attention, but their filter ends were swollen and water-stained. Since it hadn't rained for two days, Munch considered ignoring them, but he bagged them anyway. Other than the butts, everything looked like it belonged in the alley.

"Munch!"

Couch was waving at him from the fourth-floor fire escape. He walked over to where the ME's staff were loading the body for its trip to the morgue and looked up.

"Without being too obvious, check out the apartment across the street, three doors down, third floor. I'll be right down."

Munch turned his head left. A large gray mop of a dog stared back at him from the window of that apartment. Vertical blinds formed a V around the dog's body, blocking any view inside.

The meat wagon pulled out of the alley and turned down 123rd past the window with the dog. It began to bounce about and bark at the vehicle, sound muffled by glass and distance. The blinds parted and shifted with the dog's movements.

Footsteps on metal then pavement announced Couch's arrival.

"Did you spot the tripod?"

Munch shook his head.

"There's a tripod centered inside that window. I got a glimpse what might be a video camera and telephoto lens when the dog barked at the CSU van. Can you think of a good reason for aiming a camera at this building?"

Munch ticked the reasons off his fingers.

"The photographer likes run-down brick buildings. The photographer likes random shots of random violence. The photographer likes footage of himself dropping young women off fire escapes."

"It almost seems too easy."

Munch took Couch by the arm and directed him toward the street. "Never look a gift lead in the mouth."


	6. Getting to Know All About You

May 21st  
SVU Squad Room

"Anything else you want to see?"

Judith Otten finished pouring her cup of coffee. She raised the pot, but Fin declined with a shake of his head.

"No, I think we saw it all. I'm surprised we had the time to be so thorough."

Fin shrugged. "Most shifts aren't this quiet. Enjoy it while you can."

"I will."

She carried her mug to her new desk and set it by the cardboard box. Fin stood by her and chatted with her while she opened the box and began to stock her desk with personal items—Staedtler mechanical pencils, an art gum eraser molded into a perfect square, a handful of wedge-shaped barrettes—all put into the center drawer. Next came a small, unsigned watercolor of a narrow three-story townhouse with flower boxes at every window, red geraniums bright against pale gray paint.

"That's not a New York scene."

"No, that is my grandparents' house in Basel. I spent my first five years there."

"How did you end up in New York?"

"It's a long story."

Fin pulled out Couch's desk chair and made himself comfortable.

"I've seen your family photos. The story behind them has to be good."

She laughed, a throaty chuckle with more self-consciousness than humor.

"Okay; I'll give you the condensed version. My mother is Swiss; this watercolor is her work. My father is a professor; his field is the early Renaissance. They met while he was in Basel doing research for his dissertation. We moved to New York when my father gained tenure at Hudson.

"While I was growing up, they were very involved in their careers and various important causes so I spent a lot of time with my aunt Deborah and my uncle Bob. He was a desk sergeant at the Six-Five. When I was deciding what to do with my life, I let Uncle Bob influence me more than my parents. I took the police exam, made it into the Academy, met David, and married him after our rookie year. After that, my life was very normal."

Fin leaned over and took a second picture frame from the box on her desk. It showed two boys in their early teens, both dark-skinned with thick curly hair and broad noses. They wore kippah and black suits with white prayer shawls covering their shoulders. They were flanked by a thin man with a long narrow face and a younger version of Det. Otten; both adults wore proud smiles.

"Okay, so we adopted our kids. Aside from that, life has been normal."

She took the photo from him and set it on the desk by the watercolor.

"Any other questions?"

"Sure—tell me about your children."

The request came from Olivia, who had returned and parked herself on the corner of Couch's desk.

Otten pointed to the boy standing near her in the photo. "Dante is at the Six-Five, his great-uncle's old precinct. His wife Janet is an ER nurse at Maimonides. They have two girls, Cara is four and Nila six."

Her finger moved to the other boy. "Derek and his wife have a son, Aaron, who is almost two. I'm afraid David and I failed with Derek—both he and Cammie are public defenders."

Otten raised her hands in a helpless shrug while Fin and Olivia chuckled.

"What can I say?"

Fin turned to Olivia. "You find out anything new?"

"Yes, there's a link for the three victims. They all often ate lunch at a café in the East Village. Elliot's talking to Cragen about OT so we can visit the café tomorrow after shift change."

"Fin filled me in on the open cases. He said that you had been beating your heads against this one."

Olivia slapped her hand on Fin's desk. "I hate it when leads go nowhere. Maybe this will break our way this time."

The door to Cragen's office opened and Elliot came out.

"Cragen told us to go home for eight, then work the café lead. No OT until something pans out."

"Damn." Olivia slid off Fin's desk and headed for her locker. "You want to drop me and pick me up?"

While the two partners made their arrangements, Otten turned her attention back to Fin.

"You didn't mention Jake Reynolds during the case review. Is he still a suspect?"

Fin's lip curled into a sneer.

"Hell, yeah—but only where I'm concerned. All I got is gut feelin' and one incident with the neighbor girl—Sumana?"

Otten nodded. "But you said Jake only patted her on the head. That doesn't seem very threatening."

"She was the only dark-skinned girl in the group. It was all I got for a week watching him at home and at work—nothing I could take to our ADA. Cap'n finally pulled me and John. The case'll go cold while Reynolds goes after Sumana or some other little girl."

"You're certain?"

"Yeah."

Otten leaned forward, her elbows on the desktop.

"If Reynolds were interested in Sumana, he would entice her with toys, candy, things that make him attractive to a second-grader. We could ask her parents if she has received any presents from anyone or has anything in her possession that they didn't give her. Jui and Mandar would look if I asked them. Would your ADA be willing to get a search warrant based on what they might find?"

Fin thought it through.

"That's weak, Judith. Even if she had stuff from Reynolds, we'd have to tie it to him before we could search his place."

Otten rested her head on her hands and sighed. "It was a thought."

Fin stood up.

"It's enough to run past the Cap'n. If he okays it, we'll try it tomorrow. You got any more of those cranberry muffins at your house?"

Before she could answer, the outer doors swung open. A muscular man in his early thirties with his arms cuffed behind him came into the squad room with Sofarelli guiding him. Behind him came Munch at full tilt, a wide grin on his face.

"Couch, why don't you walk our guest past our lolly-gagging partners and park him in our lovely Interrogation Room? I'll let Captain Cragen know that we're here."

Sofarelli threaded the suspect through the desks. As he slipped passed Otten's chair, he whispered, "He's proving Anders' point."

"Anders' point?" Fin asked.

Otten answered, "Couch said earlier that his Lieutenant over in Robbery warned him away from Homicide—seems we're all monomaniacal and weird."

"Fits John to a T. Looks like the fun's about to start."

Munch breezed out of Cragen's office and went to the Interrogation room's door.

"This one's a slam-dunk, Fin. I'll have it wrapped in a bow before Casey gets here."

May 21st  
SVU Interrogation Room

"Okay, Darrell—tell us again how video of you and Yvonne White on her apartment's fire escape ended up on your computer screen."

Darrell Snodgrass sat staring at the legal pad on the table top before him. His posture gave the people gathered outside a good view of his short brown hair. They also had a good view of Munch, who stood to the left of his suspect, and Couch, who was observing from a chair opposite Snodgrass.

"I dunno. Maybe it's spam from the Internet."

Munch turned his face toward the ceiling and sighed loudly.

"Do you really expect me to believe that there are ateliers filled with computer-savvy Nigerians Photoshopping you and the woman who's just blown you? Forget it, Snodgrass—you're the only one responsible for these masterpieces."

He scattered a sheaf of laser-printed photos on the table. They showed Darrell standing before a kneeling Yvonne White, Darrell with his hands around her throat, Darrell lifting Yvonne in his arms, Darrell holding her upside-down over the railing, and Darrell grinning at the camera with Yvonne's feet barely visible in the bottom of the photo.

"You dashed home right after Yvonne went "splat" and captured these for posterity. A true artist takes credit for his work. This is your work, Darrell—isn't it?"

Munch plucked the last photo from the table and thrust it right into Darrell's face. Snodgrass leaned away from it. His eyes went wide, then he slumped, face almost touching the legal pad.

"Yeah, it's mine. I did it."

Munch picked up a pen, handed it to Darrell so he could write out his statement, then waved Couch to follow him from the room. After the door closed behind them, he allowed himself a triumphant smirk.

_Okay, Brooklyn—let's see you match that!_

Aloud he said, "And that, boys and girl, is how it's done. Anyone mind if I dump the paperwork on Couch and head home for some well-deserved rest?"

Cragen checked his watch. "No problem, John—as soon as Mr. Snodgrass is finished with his statement and processed for arraignment. Given that there's just over an hour left to the shift…."

He let the sentence hang unfinished. Munch turned to Sofarelli.

"Couch, note how true genius is valued around here. We close this case in record time…."

The rant faded as the two of them headed back into Interrogation.

Fin and Otten remained at the one-way glass.

"He's good," she said to Fin.

"Yeah, but don't tell him that. He'll be insufferable for days."

"Should I tell him that it's nice not to be the oldest one on the team?"

"That'd go wrong, too. Best you don't mention age, marriage, divorce, Baltimore, the JFK assassination, the IRS, UFOs—hell, don't say the word "conspiracy" at all—and especially don't mention ex-wives."

"Sounds like he's a joy to work with."

Fin turned to lean against the one-way glass.

"We had a case right after I got here. Cop's daughter caught up in a sex and drugs ring. Lawyer had some info we needed in a hurry, so I flashed him a business card I'd used undercover for Narcotics and paid him for an hour's time.

"I figured John'd be cool and follow my lead and he did—even when the lawyer asked why he was there and I called him 'my Jew.'"

Otten interrupted, "The perfect accessory for the fashionable dealer?"

"Beat tellin' him John's rank and pay grade. I got the name we needed and we got out of there. John starts bitching at me about not warning him and calling him "my Jew" and I blow it off. When we get back to the car, John gets in the back seat. He's just siting there, leaning back with his arm resting on the window ledge. I open the driver's door to see what's up and he starts whistling the theme song from 'Driving Miss Daisy.'"

He folded his arms and waited for her reaction.

_You gonna refuse to laugh because it might offend a black man? You gonna go all righteous over my partner's 'racial bias'? You gonna get offended because I said 'Jew'?_

Otten stared at him for a moment then made a strangled squeak. Her lips twisted and tightened in a struggle to keep her reaction limited to that squeak. She lasted three seconds by Fin's count before a hearty guffaw echoed from her through the squad room.

"Yeah, it was kinda funny."

"Funny? That was damn clever. You can have him—he sounds too intelligent for me."

"I wasn't offering to trade. You back under control? We ought to see Cap'n before he gets tied up with Casey and arraigning Snodgrass."

Otten drew in a deep breath. "I must have needed a good laugh."

"Enjoy it. They're precious few around here."

Shift change  
SVU Squad Room

Fin shrugged into his leather jacket.

"Hey, Fin," John called from the door to Cragen's office, "where'd Couch disappear to?"

"Gone," Fin said without turning around. "He and Judith went for a beer."

"Bonding already? Good. The sooner they're on their own, the sooner we can get back to…."

Fin turned to see Munch halted by Otten's desk, his attention riveted on her desk pictures.

"Fin, what do you know about this?" He pointed at the framed pictures.

"That's where Judith grew up. Her mom painted it. The photo's her family."

Munch greeted the info with a nod.

"Interesting. See you in sixteen, Fin."

He was out the door before Fin could ask why it interested his partner.

May 22  
803 W 183rd St  
Residence of John Munch

Keys, coat, cell phone, holster and gun—a place for everything because his place was too small for anything to be out of place. Freed from the trappings of his job, John stopped halfway between kitchen and bookcase, deciding between a light midnight supper and his need to verify a suspicion.

Suspicion won. He pulled from his bookcase a folio titled "Marguerite Geistner: Collected Works"—his second copy, the first having vanished with most of his other possessions when Nancy had packed and left him. He sat down, feet propped on the low table before his chair, opened the oversized book to the biographical section and skimmed until he found the paragraph that he sought.

Geistner and Aaron Fogel had one child, Judith, born in Basel in 1950. Mother and child lived with Geistner's parents until 1956, when Fogel was granted tenure at Hudson University in New York City. During this time, Geistner produced her _Ursprung_, _Geschichte_, and _Alpen_ series, the watercolors that brought her international attention.

He flipped the pages to Geistner's _Ursprung_ series, a set of paintings depicting the birthplaces of famous Europeans. It had been the artist's conceit to include herself, a foreshadowing of her future fame.

_Here we are: _Ursprung—Geistner. _I thought so._

The watercolor reproduced in the book was identical to the one on Otten's desk, except that the photo showed the work's title hand-lettered under the body of the watercolor and a scrawled "M. Geistner" at the extreme lower right-hand corner. The caption for the photo read "Courtesy J. Fogel"

_Otten had it matted to cover the title and signature. Why would she do that?_

He turned the page. The text wrapped around several photos of Geistner and her family: two adults and a tow-headed grade-schooler in a pink bathing suit at Coney Island, Dr. Fogel in a book-strewn office, Geistner in her studio reviewing sketches, and one that made Munch laugh out loud—a teen-aged Judith Otten and her parents sandwiched between two Black activists clothed in black leather pants and wool turtlenecks, their carefully unkempt Afros forming an arch over the distinctly sullen girl.

The caption read "Fund-raiser for the Back Panthers attended by the Fogels, 1966."

_I'll bet she'd pay good money to keep this off the squad's bulletin board._

He then flipped to his favorite Geistner work, her _Geschichte: Der Gefangene von Chillon_. The sight of it took him back to high school and Mr. Barton's Art Appreciation, a class reputed to overflow with girls desperate for the company of art-loving males. He had slouched low in his desk, long legs angled into the aisle, listening to Barton drone on while waiting for the girls seated around him to be awed by his presence.

"We'll now compare two renditions of the same scene. The first is a tinted print from the 1800s of Chillon Castle, a 13th-century castle near Lake Geneva, Switzerland. Nice work, suitable for hanging in your grandmother's parlor, assuming it matches her sofa."

A couple of students laughed politely. Barton set the print on the rail of the chalkboard. Next to it, he put a watercolor of the same castle. John straightened in his desk at the sight of the second picture—same castle, almost the same angle and view—but this one weirded him out. He wanted to see how the artist made the painting so creepy, but he didn't want to get any closer to it.

_I'd visit the first castle even if Frankenstein dropped the drawbridge for me. I wouldn't go near the second one for anything—but they're the same place! How'd he do that?_

"If I tell you that François de Bonnivard, who supported Geneva's revolt against the Duke of Savoy in the sixteenth century, spent six years chained to a pillar in the dungeon of this castle, does that change your opinion of either picture?"

_It doesn't change it—it explains it. That second guy, somehow he put those years of imprisonment in the painting. How? Is it something in the paint, the colors, the way it's painted? Did he concentrate on being chained, unable to move, unable to see daylight, while he painted?_

Barton droned on about perceptions and preconceived notions and bringing an open mind to art so one could appreciate it better, but John heard none of it. He was too lost in the realization that someone could create a painting that wasn't just a picture of something, but also made him feel and think about that something.

The bell rang. He grabbed his book bag and headed to the door, stopping when he heard Mr. Barton call his name.

"The original is hanging in the Corcoran in D.C. You should go see it."

John looked sideways at the watercolor.

"Is it like that in person? I mean, if I went and looked at it, would it…."

He let the question trail off, unsure how to express it.

"Yes, it's like that in person. Geistner has the ability to show us a scene, its surface meaning, and also everything that lies under the surface."

"How?"

_Mr. Barton didn't have an answer other than "talent." The next weekend, I stood in front of that watercolor, learned the German title meant "History: the Prisoner of Chillon" and realized that Geistner meant for me to feel the horror of imprisonment when I looked at that pretty castle. Being able to show both the outside and the inside of something is a rare gift and Marguerite Geistner has it in spades. If her daughter has the same gift of perception, then she's a damned good detective._

He let the book fall closed on his lap and thought about Otten. She was a threat, more than capable of replacing him. She was an enigma, her upbringing and background at odds with her choice of career. Judging by her family photo, she didn't mind being different, but she hid her mother's name as if ashamed of her.

_Otten is too much like me for comfort._

He spent a long time considering what to do.


End file.
